Tomorrow, it will be Behind Me
by haha-you-fell.third.time
Summary: Nick speaks to Daisy one final time after Gatsby's death.


Once was a time these rooms were filled wall to wall with crowds and crowds of people, all chattering away, drinking the liquor of a man whose face they did not know, whose voice they never heard, whose reputation they happily besmirched. Once was a time, his name was said with envy, with admiration, with mystery. Once was a time he stood before the crowd, surrounded by drunken body, smiling, both at them and at the solitude he hoped would one day be broken. Once was a time Jay Gatsby walked through these rooms, sat in these chairs, drunk from these glasses. He swam in this pool; he cut this grass. He stood before this river and gazed upon the house which sat just within his view, but just out of his reach.

I stand here now and I can feel him here. He is standing beside me, gazing across this river which shines like a thousand broken shards of glass beneath the autumn sun. He is standing beside me, wondering when his lover, who lives in that nicely painted, white home will come to him and kiss his lifeless lips goodbye one last time.

The house is becoming blurry. I blink, trying to rid myself of the tears which slowly blind me from all the things Gatsby once saw. But with every blink, my eyes grow hotter, my vision blurrier and before I can stop it, I can feel the tears rolling down the skin of my cheeks, leaving behind two wet streaks which quickly cool by the late autumn breeze. Tomorrow, I will go back home and try to leave all of this behind but inside I know, Gatsby shall forever stand here, beside me, staring out upon the home of the woman—the lover—who allowed him to be buried alone.

"Nick?" I jump a bit, trying to wipe the tears from my eyes as I spin around and see Daisy standing several feet behind me. Perhaps weeks ago, I would feel slightly embarrassed at her seeing me like this. I could only imagine how pale and thin my face has become, how annunciated the dark bags beneath my eyes must be. But I no longer care. I look upon Daisy's slender body, her faire skin, her fresh face untouched by sleep deprivation and I truly do not care. She takes a step forward. I have to stop myself from taking a step back. "Nick," she repeats, her eyes wide with what I assume is meant to be sincerity. "I was wondering how you are?"

"Gatsby died," I answer coldly, looking back across the river. "How do you think I am?"

"I'm sorry," I hear her say, taking another three steps toward me. "I know. I should have gone to the funeral—"

"—No. No, Daisy, I think it's best that you didn't go."

Daisy continues, pretending she didn't hear me. "I just came to… collect some things."

I turn back to her, feeling the anger escalate within me. "Collect what?" I ask.

"Well," she begins, no looking at me. She, too, is looking past the river to her own home. I wonder if she ever knew what that home, what that river, truly meant to Gatsby. "I was wondering what was done with his shirts? You know I did quite like the shirts. I was wondering I could take them as a… keepsake of him?"

I glare at her, feeling my eyes sharpen. Then suddenly, I feel my lips draw back and hear a crackling chuck rise from my throat. "His shirts?" I repeat, still laughing. "You want his shirts?" She nods. "Then take them, Daisy! It's not as though you need to ask. You always find a way to get what you want, don't you, Daisy?"

"Why are you acting this way, Nick?" Daisy asks, her voice trembling with… fear? I'm not sure. "We're friends, are we not?"

"I don't know, Daisy?" I spit back, my voice getting louder. "Are we? Here's a better question. Did you love Gatsby? Did you care for him?" I'm walking toward her as I speak, taking long, heavy strides. Her eyes look at me, wide, her body frozen. She looks like a dear in headlights. Like a delicate, innocent, dear in cruel, speeding headlights.

But you're not a fucking dear, I want to scream. You were the one driving the goddamn car.

"I did love him." Daisy tells me, her voice calm. "I did. Really. I…I was going to leave Tom."

I look at her again. Her non-tired eyes; her unchanged, slender body. "No," I hear myself say. "No, you wouldn't Daisy. Fine if you weren't going to, but don't stand here and tell me you would. That night _you_ filled Myrtle—you knew Gatsby was waiting for you. He wanted _you_, Daisy. He wanted to talk to you. He was ready to take the blame for _you_. Because that was the kind of man he was—the kind who would go to jail for the one he loved. The kind who took on the cruel rumors, the loneness, the fake friends—all for you. All for you, Da—" I hear my voice hiccup, as though the passion were sudden sucked from every word, every sound. And with the passion, drains the anger which had filled the entirety of my body only moments ago. I can feel my body weaken as the anger is lifted from me, my limbs suddenly overcome by tiredness, by heaviness, by hollowness. My legs wobble a bit, but I will not allow myself to sit. I take a deep breath, feeling the tears build up behind my eyes. I turn around and look back onto the river. It no longer separates Gatsby from his love. It never did, really. It wasn't the river that separated Gatsby from Daisy. It never was. Gatsby knew that.

I glance up and saw the green light which shone from Daisy's home.

We stand like that for several minutes, Daisy and I. We stand in silence. I close my eyes, and listen to the gentle waves of the river. I hear the faint splashing of the water against the rocks below me. I hear the distant chirps of the birds flying North and the rustling of the trees, their crisp, near dead leaves falling being ripped from the branches and pushed by the cool breeze. "You may have the shirts," I tell Daisy, who jumps slightly at the sound of my voice. "You can take them. I don't want them. Neither did Mr. Gatz. He left after the funeral, by the way."

"Mr. Gatz…?" I don't answer, but I feel her question rip through me, stabbing my heard which already ached for my lost friend. She can have the shirts. Hell, she can have the whole house, if she wants. I doubt Gatsby would mind. I open my eyes again, taking on final look at the river which separated her home from his. She can have this river too, if she wants.

It wasn't the river that separated them, anyway.

With that I walk away, leaving behind Daisy to go through the house and steal and dead man's shirts. Tomorrow, I'll begin my journey West. Tomorrow, I'll put behind Daisy and Jordan and Tom and that damn green light which always shone bright from the house across the river.

I'll put it all behind.


End file.
